


1.	When I was little, I always wondered about these kinds of things...

by pushingcrazies



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bisexuality, F/F, M/M, Multi, Nontraditional relationship, Post-Reichenbach, Transgender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-15
Updated: 2012-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-30 21:18:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/336264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pushingcrazies/pseuds/pushingcrazies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A study of Lestrade's sexuality in ficlet form.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1.	When I was little, I always wondered about these kinds of things...

When Greg was a young boy, he wondered about sex.  Most little boys did, of course, but Greg was different.  He wondered what it was about women that men found attractive and vice versa.  He wondered what made a person gay and how did they know that they were?  He tried asking people, but his parents told him that was impolite, so he stopped.  In his early teens, he hoarded dirty magazines of all sorts and would spend hours in his room looking at them, touching himself, trying to figure out what it was about the airbrushed images that got him so excited.

The thing was, Greg wasn’t like the other kids.  He found himself equally aroused by nude males as by females.  He wasn’t gay, that was for sure.  But he wasn’t entirely straight, either.  Mostly he was just confused, and it made him react violently towards other people sometimes.  Like when the school bullies picked on the effeminate boy in the showers; it filled him with a blind rage, and the next thing he knew he was attacking three people at once and getting his arse thoroughly kicked.

At age seventeen, Greg stopped trying to analyse his feelings and started to explore them through a more practical means.  He dated anyone and everyone, and slept with most of them.  He flirted practically nonstop.  It wasn’t that he was particularly arrogant or anything; he didn’t think himself all that good-looking, honestly.  If he were perfectly truthful, he was always a bit surprised when someone agreed to come back to his flat with him.  He usually chalked it up to alcohol and poor judgment, but he wasn’t exactly complaining.  Some people might – and did – call him promiscuous (well, they tended to use words like slutty and manwhore), but he was just trying to figure out his “preference.”  Everyone had a “preference,” it seemed.  Some people “preferred” men over women, some “preferred” women.  Some “preferred” blondes over brunettes, while others “preferred” Asians or Africans or South Americans, and so on and so forth.  The list went on and on.

When he was twenty-five, he ran into that effeminate boy from secondary school again and received the biggest shock of his life; “he” was now a “she.”  Little pansy Carl was now smoking-hot Kim.  Somehow, Greg felt less confused by his attraction to her than any other person he’d ever shagged before.  She was the perfect blend of femininity and masculinity, the best of both worlds.  It was ironic, exhilarating, and a little bit relieving, but their relationship wasn’t meant to last. They were polar opposites: where Kim was neat and orderly, Greg had a haphazard idea of organisation, at best.  Kim was quiet and reserved, while Greg was loud, brash, and still tended to lash out at everyone around him.  Greg could barely make rent, but Kim was well on her way to a high-paying career.  Greg wanted children eventually, whether they were adopted or not; Kim could barely stand her own nephew.

They broke up, agreeing to stay on good terms.  A week later, Kim was found in an alley, brutally raped and murdered.  A hate crime, the police called it because of her sexuality.  They never found the bastards who did it.

That was when Greg decided to join the police force.

He made a lot of changes that year.  He worked hard on controlling his more violent impulses.  He found other channels for them instead, like wrestling and rugby.  He stopped sleeping around and began dating in earnest, trying to find “the one.”

What he found instead was Jennifer Wells.  She may not have been the one, but they both had a similar goal: getting married and having children.  Greg was thirty-three at this point and could feel his metaphorical clock ticking.  Jennifer was six years his junior and (he suspected) looking for a quick way to become a stay-at-home mum.  So they got married and started working towards that big family they both wanted right away.  They ended up with two beautiful girls, Jordan and Jeremaya Lynn.  They were the light of his life, his pride and joy, and every other sappy Hallmark sentiment one could think of.  Things with Jenn, however, were not going so well.  She began cheating on him after Jeri was born, he knew.

He blamed himself for her transgressions.  During her pregnancy, he had become a little…well, side-tracked.  Not that he cheated on her, but he had been tempted.  By the beautiful, drug-addled genius who came wandering onto his crime scenes every so often telling him what an idiot he and all his subordinates were.  His name was Sherlock Holmes and he got under Lestrade’s skin like no one had for a long time now.  Not since Kim.

The more Lestrade was around Sherlock, the more he discovered the kid wasn’t like other people, either mentally, emotionally, or sexually.  Like Greg, he had absolutely no preference when it came to sex.  But unlike Greg, that meant that he preferred no sex whatsoever rather than sex with anyone he could connect with.  This was something Lestrade had never encountered before, and it fascinated him.

They had kissed once.  Well, Sherlock had kissed him.  It was half a year into their…partnership or whatever it was they had and two weeks prior, Lestrade had laid down the law: either Sherlock got off the drugs for good or he wouldn’t be allowed onto any more crime scenes.  Sherlock must not have thought he was serious because there he was, high as a kite and bouncing around, handing out insults like candy.  Lestrade lost it.  He shouted at Sherlock until the kid realised how serious he was and started scowling and sulking.  It was a pretty juicy case: just a dismembered torso found in the trunk of a car, and Sherlock wanted a shot at trying to identify the man.  Well, nothing doing, Lestrade said.  And that should have been that.

Just as they were about to start packing up, Lestrade found surprisingly strong hands pulling him into a conveniently close alley.  The next thing he knew, Sherlock’s lips were on his, clumsily moving and trying to get Lestrade to open to him.  Lestrade was rigid with shock.  Sherlock mumbled through messy kisses that even though he had no desire or previous experience with sex, he was sure his genius brain could figure out how to give a blowjob.

That was when Lestrade finally came back to himself and shoved Sherlock off.  Sherlock looked surprised, then condescending.  And how that brat felt any right to look down on Lestrade after what had just happened was beyond his comprehension.

“Back to your place,” Lestrade managed to get out.

Sherlock looked like Christmas had come early.  “Let me look at the body first,” he said, heading for the cordon.

Lestrade grabbed his arm.  “No, back to your place.  Then we’ll see about letting you in on the case, depending on how tonight goes.”

Sherlock paused, mulling it over.  At last he nodded and climbed into the passenger seat of Lestrade’s car.  Lestrade let Sally know where he would be and instructed her to oversee the final packing up and moving on.  The whole ride back to his flat, Sherlock was jittery and could not sit still.  He kept glancing at Lestrade, specifically at his crotch.  What could possibly be on his mind, Lestrade wasn’t sure; for all he knew, Sherlock was trying to deduce how big he was.  Lestrade felt bad about his deceit, but it was in everyone’s best interest that he deal with this problem as soon as possible.

At the flat, Sherlock started towards Lestrade, trying to take off his clothes.  Lestrade grabbed his hands and clicked his handcuffs into place.  Sherlock looked frightened for a split second, but then covered it up with his usual aloofness.  “I didn’t realise you were into bondage, Inspector.”

“I’m not.  This is to keep you from doing anything stupid.”

Sherlock resisted, just as Lestrade knew he would, but eventually he got the poor lad into his pyjamas and into bed.  A bed that looked like it hadn’t been slept in for over a week, at least.  Once Sherlock promised he wouldn’t try to run, Lestrade took the handcuffs off.  Unsurprisingly, he did try to run, but Lestrade had taken several precautions, not the least of which was setting up a few spontaneous baby-proofs that Sherlock was too strung out to manoeuvre around.

That night Lestrade nursed him through the worst withdrawal either of them had seen.  Several times he was tempted to take Sherlock to the hospital, but the boy’s piteous protests kept him from doing so.  To take their minds off what was going on, he asked Sherlock questions about what it was like to not feel sexual impulses.  Sherlock answered as well as he could, but much of what he said was unintelligible through chattering teeth and hallucinations.

Finally, he couldn’t stand it anymore.  He shucked his outer clothes and climbed onto the narrow bed with Sherlock, gathering him into his arms and trying to warm him up with his body heat. It seemed to work; Sherlock no longer shook uncontrollably and was reduced to just the occasional tremor.  They both fell asleep, and when Sherlock woke up the next day, it was to find his bed empty.  He only vaguely remembered what had happened the previous night and was half-convinced he had dreamed that Lestrade was there.

The next time Sherlock came to a crime scene, he was sober, and he stayed like that ever since.

Now, it is six years later.  Jenn is gone.  The girls are gone.  Sherlock… The list goes on and on.  Lestrade is all alone, sitting in front of Kim’s gravestone, wondering where he went wrong.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Kim Foyle is from Rupert Graves' earlier work: Different for Girls. Well worth the watch, if you've never seen it before.


End file.
